Burnt Orange Discord
by Coelacanthic
Summary: Just one more addition to the pile of dead Kenny's built up in the inner linings of his soul. It's okay if no one else remembers, because he can remember for them. There will be no falling apart in this strange boy's schedule. Only smiles.


The splintered wood of the attic floor scrapes against the already raw soles of my feet. I'm not entirely sure when it was that my parents last bought me a pair of shoes, but I sure as hell can't wear the little ones that I've worn for the past forever anymore.

I stare almost blindly into the darkness in front of me; the weak light bulb hanging from the ceiling is basically pointless. Kevin said the football would be in here somewhere. I'm starting to think he was lying- why the hell would the football be up here, anyways? Plus, the only things in my immediate field of vision are cobwebs and a ton of wooden chests filled with moth-eaten piles of useless crap. But I search on, if not to find the football then to at least put off Kevin's whining and bitching, and accusations of me being to much of a pussy to stay in the attic long enough to actually find the ball.

I peer around a taped up stack of card board boxes, water stained and moldy. They probably chucked the ball all the way to the back just to screw with the poor sucker who got stuck with going to get it. Not that I have very far to go, though- my house is already pretty small, so there's only so much attic you can fit above it.

I cough into the fabric of my orange hoodie, and turn around to head to the other half of the attic. Man, what is up with all this trials and tribulation shit, attic? I think, stepping over a -maybe- dead spider. All I want to do is play some ball with my bro, is that too much to ask? After a few more minutes of searching I find out that yeah, maybe it is too much to ask. The football is laying deflated next to a stack of moldy porn magazines.

Fuck. Kev's gonna be pissed.

I pick up the football as evidence and start making my way back to the stairs. Stumbling upon an extra-squeaky board, I pause and mess with it, squeaking out a pretty cool beat.

Maybe get too into the song, and I press my foot down on the wood too hard, because there's a crack, and now I'm falling. Another crack- what I'd assume to be my neck, and the living room couch, and I'm dead, for the fourth time that week.

I shuffle around in Stan's freezer for my favorite flavor of popsicle, hoping with all my might that Cartman didn't eat them all and leave only the green and yellow ones, but it's starting to look that way. I settle for one of the nasty pineapple ones - after all, beggars can't be choosers- and head back out into the Marsh's living room.

Stan and Kyle are laughing at a joke that was obviously made at Cartman's expense from the over exaggerated way that he's pouting. I know better than to get tubby in a bad mood; he's even more of a killjoy than usual. So, I bring up a new topic as soon as I enter the room.

"Are we gonna do something today, or are we just gonna sit around and talk about our feelings like a bunch of pussies?"

I'm not entirely sure that they caught every word I said, but they get the basic gist of it, and that's enough to turn the conversation around.

"Haha, yeah," Stan agrees, adjusting his hat with one hand, "We should play football or something."

I wince. Before I can disagree, Cartman does it for me. "Oh hell no, I am not playing football with you faggots." "That's because you're fat, fat ass." I don't even know who said that. This dialogue exchange has become so uniform I don't even play attention anymore. I chuckle anyways, because if anything doesn't get old, it's Cartman's rage face.

I have no clue when or how we decide to sit around some more and play video games, but it isn't football, and that's all that really matters. And the fact that I've only died playing video games, like, once, and that was entirely my fault anyways. I'm shaken out of my uncomfortable thoughts when the controller is shoved into my hands,

"Cartman got pissed and left, so it's your turn," Kyle explains to me, recognizing the fact that I was spacing out. I smile and bob my head, and totally kick Stan's ass into the ground on my first try. He groans and falls backwards, acting like I just kicked his puppy or something. Kyle laughs and tells him to suck it up, and gives me a high five. I can't wipe the stupid smile off my face. This is so much better than stale attics, better than deflated footballs, better than all that _shit_ and it makes me so happy that I get to keep living for these people.

I slide off the couch, opting for a better view of the T.V. for the next match, sitting so childishly close to it it's amazing my retinas don't burn out. When I beat Stan this time, he laughs, and throws another faux tantrum. I think he throws his arms up, because the cord hooked up to the Play Station goes taut, stuck behind the entertainment center, and the T.V. leans towards me, getting way to close to my personal space. I'm not sure I even make a sound when it find it's way into my lap, crushing my scrawny legs.

10 bucks says that becomes a deadly infection. Any takers?


End file.
